A British government-commissioned review of antisemitism in the United Kingdom’s National Health Service included one finding that should disturb anyone who cares about medicine: Some Jewish patients said they did not wish to seek treatment or had put off important care. The review, led by Lord Mann, the UK government’s adviser on antisemitism, also found that Jewish staff in the NHS described “routine ostracism.” In a system built to treat every person, some Jews began to wonder whether it was safe to be visibly Jewish.
The review did not appear in isolation. A Jewish doctor in Britain, identified in Israeli media as Baruch, told ITV that he had heard medical colleagues say they would not treat dying patients from Israel. He also said he had witnessed cases in which Jewish patients did not receive kosher meals during hospitalization. The British Health Department called the reports “shocking” and said it was unacceptable for people to feel unsafe while working in or receiving care from the health system.
Together, the personal testimony and the official review point to the same frightening question:
What happens when Jews begin to doubt whether the health system sees them simply as patients?
A patient should never have to calculate whether his identity will affect the way he is treated. A Jewish woman entering a hospital should not have to think about whether to hide a Star of David. A Jewish doctor or nurse should not have to decide whether it is wiser to keep quiet about who they are. A person calling for medical help should not have to wonder whether speaking Hebrew on the phone will change the room.
This is what antisemitism after October 7 has done in too many parts of the West. It has taught Jews to measure ordinary spaces differently, from a campus lecture hall to a street protest, from a workplace conversation to a train ride, from a social media profile to a synagogue entrance. Now, according to the review in Britain, even a health system has become part of that calculation for some Jews.
In my work with patients and families, I have seen people at their most exposed. They come with scans, medical files, frightened spouses, confused parents, children waiting for answers, and questions they often do not fully understand. They are rarely interested in grand speeches. They want to know which doctor to see, what the diagnosis means, whether the treatment is urgent, and whom they can trust. That trust is the quiet foundation of medicine, and without it the entire structure weakens.
The patient sitting across from a doctor is not a political symbol, a flag, a government, or a war. He is a human being who may be in pain, frightened, embarrassed, or desperate, and the doctor’s first duty is to that person.
This is why the NHS findings matter far beyond Britain. A hospital has to feel different from the world outside it. Political argument belongs outside the clinical encounter. A badge, poster, slogan, or hostile remark may feel small to the person displaying it, but to a vulnerable patient, it can change the entire room.
The British government has accepted Lord Mann’s recommendations, including stronger accountability for NHS employers and mandatory training to address antisemitism and racism. These steps are important, and they also show how serious the problem has become. A health system should not need a national review to remind it that Jewish patients and staff deserve safety and dignity.
Since October 7, criticism of Israel has too often slipped into suspicion of Jews. The Israeli passport became a provocation. Hebrew became a risk. Jewish visibility became something to manage. Many Jews learned to lower their voices, remove symbols, avoid certain conversations, or enter rooms already prepared for hostility. A hospital must be the place where those calculations end.
Israel understands this principle well. In Israeli hospitals, Jews and Arabs, religious and secular people, citizens and foreigners, soldiers and civilians, sit in the same waiting rooms and are treated by the same teams. The outside argument does not disappear, but it cannot be allowed to decide who receives care.
Doctors and nurses are entitled to private political views. They can argue about governments, wars, policies, and leaders like anyone else. The red line begins when those views enter the clinic, the ward, or the treatment room. The white coat is supposed to cover politics, not carry it.
A medical system that allows one group to wonder whether identity affects care has weakened the promise it makes to every patient. Today that fear is felt by Jews. Tomorrow another group may feel it. Once identity becomes relevant to care, every minority has reason to worry.
Britain now has a chance to respond seriously. Health leaders, regulators, hospitals, and medical associations should say clearly that antisemitism has no place in medicine, and that Jewish patients and staff must never be asked to quietly absorb it.
The physician’s oath matters most when the politics outside are loud and ugly. A patient entering a hospital should know one thing with absolute certainty: the person treating him sees a human being first. If Jewish patients cannot trust that, Britain has a problem far larger than one review. Medicine does too.
The writer is a recipient of the President’s Volunteer Medal and chairman of Le’Maanchem, an organization that provides voluntary medical guidance and support.